Dorchester Terrace by Anne Perry

to call,” Nerissa said when she met Vespasia at the foot of the stairs by the lamp on the newel post.
    “Nonsense,” Vespasia replied rather more briskly than she had intended to. The comfort of speaking to Tucker the moment beforeslipped away from her. She was deeply disturbed, and it had taken her by surprise. Physical decline she was prepared for—to a degree it was inevitable—but the slipping away of mental grasp, even of identity, she had not considered. Perhaps because she did not want to. Could she one day be as isolated and afraid as Serafina was, dependent on people of a generation who neither knew nor understood anything of who she was? People like this cool young woman who imagined that compassion was no more than a duty, an empty act performed for its own sake.
    “I came because Serafina and I have been friends for more years than you are aware of,” Vespasia said, still tartly. “I am gravely remiss in not having come before. I should have taken the care to know how ill she is.”
    “She is not in pain,” Nerissa said gently. Something in the patience of her tone irritated Vespasia almost unbearably. It was as if, in her perception, Vespasia was also unable to grasp reality.
    Vespasia bit back her response with a considerable effort, because she needed this young woman’s cooperation. She could not afford to antagonize her.
    “So she assured me,” she said. “However, she is in distress. Maybe she has not told you so, but she is convinced that in her memory lapses she may be indiscreet, and the thought of it troubles her profoundly.”
    Nerissa smiled. “Oh, yes, I’m afraid she is not always quite sure where she is, or what year it is. She rambles quite a bit, but it is harmless, I assure you. She speaks of people she knew years ago as if they were still alive, and frankly I think she romanticizes the past rather a lot.” Her expression became even more patient. “But that is quite understandable. When the past is so much more exciting than the present, who would not want to dwell in it a little? And we all remember things with perhaps more light and color than they really possessed.”
    Vespasia wanted to tell this young woman, with her indifferent face and healthy young body, that Serafina Montserrat had a past with more vivid color than any other woman Nerissa was likely to meet in her lifetime. But her purpose was to safeguard Serafina, toremove the fear, whether founded or not, rather than put Nerissa Freemarsh in her place.
    “The reality doesn’t matter,” she said, ashamed of the evasion but knowing that it was necessary. She could not afford to tell Nerissa more than a suggestion of the truth, since the young woman clearly did not consider it important enough to guard with discretion.
    “Serafina is anxious that she may unintentionally speak of someone else’s private affairs,” she continued. “Would it not be possible to see that her visitors are limited, and that someone is with her who would interrupt if she seems to be wandering in her mind? Such assurance might relieve her anxiety. Tucker is excellent, but she cannot be there all the time. I can look for someone suitable and suggest a few possible names.”
    Nerissa smiled, her lips oddly tight. “You are very kind, but Aunt Serafina would dismiss such a person within a short while. She hates to be fussed over. Her fantasy that she knows all kinds of state secrets and terrible things about the private lives of archdukes and so on is complete imagination, you know. The few people who call on her are quite aware of that. It pleases her to daydream in that way, and it does no harm. No one believes her, I promise you.”
    Vespasia wondered if that was true. In the past, thirty or forty years ago, Serafina had certainly known all manner of things about the planned rebellions within the vast Austro-Hungarian Empire. She had been part of some of them. She had dined, danced, and very possibly slept with minor royalty—even